


Breakfast with Mycroft

by geekmama



Series: Aftermath [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Not Canon Compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-21
Updated: 2017-10-21
Packaged: 2019-01-20 22:03:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12442713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geekmama/pseuds/geekmama
Summary: After a promising start to the morning after Sherrinford, Sherlock finds his appetite in danger of being spoiled...





	Breakfast with Mycroft

**Author's Note:**

> Follows directly from _[This New Day](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12410796)_ , and here is where we go off-canon. I am afraid I should have made this a chaptered fic, might not make sense without reading the previous bits of the series, but oh well. It is what it is.
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Sherlock rose from his prone position atop her on the sofa with the ease that was always a testament to his innate grace and a reproach to (what often seemed) her own lack thereof. He offered his hand to her and helped her to her feet, but then there was a moment of awkwardness. Years of reserve lay in splinters, but were not entirely swept away by any means, and when he colored slightly and muttered, “Be right back, have to use the toilet,” and retreated up the stairs at a lope, she could fully relate to his feelings. 

She scurried off to the powder room herself, a tiny room near the kitchen, and quickly tidied up, blushing  at the sight of her thoroughly kissed lips, and not only because of that, either. In spite of her fear that the story he would soon relate would be awful, both in fact and implication, there was an almost giddy sense of joy in her heart. She was _loved._ Her affection and deep regard for him were  _not_ unrequited. That was a weight to which she’d been resigned for a very long time but had only fully acknowledged and accepted in the last year, since she’d ended her engagement to Tom. The lifting of that weight had her ready to bounce, dance, shout, maybe burst -- maybe float away entirely! She had to make a real effort to subdue the feeling, reminding herself that sometimes life got in the way of happiness, and there was virtually nothing else settled between them as yet. So she took several steadying breaths, fought down the smile that _would_ make the corners of her mouth twitch, and went to make him his breakfast. 

Her elation must have been evident anyway, though, for when he came back into the kitchen and she turned to him, and saw him, beautifully brushed, washed, and dressing-gowned, his eyes widened and instead of sitting down in one of the chairs by the peninsula he came over to her where she stood cutting an apple into thin slices. He carefully took the knife from her and set it down before taking her in his arms. 

“Molly, you are beautiful. Have I ever told you that?” he said in _that voice_ , and before she could stammer more than, “N-no!” he kissed her again. 

It occurred to her, through a haze of blissful sensation, that the volume entitled _History of Best Kisses_ would again have to be revised. 

“ _Oh_ ,” she whispered, when she finally could, though she felt oddly breathless and was very glad of his supporting arms (one of his hands seemed to have drifted south and was now splayed over her hip, crushing her firmly against him, which might account for some of the breathlessness). 

“Oh, indeed. Are you certain you don’t want to skip breakfast?” 

“Breakfast?” She raised her hand to caress the side of his dear face, intending to pull him into another kiss. 

But his hand left her hip (which was a shame) and caught hers, and he kissed her fingers. Then, still holding her hand, he said, “Bermuda Triangle.” 

She stared. “What?” 

“Bermuda Triangle. It was from some film Mary made me watch, before Christmas last year. Something to the effect that a man could get lost in a woman’s… _ah_ … Bermuda Triangle… so to speak… and never be heard from again.“ 

“Bull Durham. Kevin Costner. Baseball.” 

“That was it!” He smiled, pleased. 

Molly said, sadly, “It was one of Mary’s favorites, too?” 

“Yes. And yours, I take it?” 

“Yes.” 

“Hmm. You know what I mean, then. I… I have no direct experience of such a thing, but I fear the quote may be all too accurate, considering my physical and emotional response to mere kisses.” 

“Those, Sherlock, were not _mere_ anything.” 

He could not help looking pleased again, of course, but said, “Nevertheless. Perhaps we’d better…” 

“Cool off?” She gave a tiny snort of laughter. 

“Restrain ourselves.” 

She sighed. “It’s so tiresome being a responsible adult.” 

He kissed her again, but it was light and brief. “Make me some breakfast, please, Dr. Hooper.” 

“Alright. But you’d better call your brother back and see what he wanted. From the hints you’ve been giving me, I fear it might be important.” With a slight smirk she pulled his mobile from the pocket of her dressing gown and handed it to him. 

“If that doesn’t cool me off, nothing will,” he muttered, accepting it. “Probably destroy my appetite, too.” 

She went back to preparing the breakfast she’d planned, but couldn’t help listening to the one sided conversation that soon began. 

“Mycroft. When did you get back?” There was a long pause, then, “Really? Well. Give her my regards.” 

Molly turned to him and he waggled his eyebrows and silently mouthed, “Lady Smallwood!” Her own brows lifted and she gave a silent expression of approval. 

But after another half minute, Sherlock’s amusement was fading rapidly. He said, with an edge to his voice, “So when are they coming?... Your _office?_ Why on earth _there?_ ” And, exasperated, he said to Molly, “My mother and father have been summoned to London so he can explain to them -- no _we_ can explain to them -- that their daughter, who did _not_ die in a fire as had been previously reported, has been up to some mischief these last few years. In his tomb of an office, at nine a.m. tomorrow!” Then he spoke into the mobile again. “No, Mycroft. They’ll be devastated enough without exposing them to your gothic notion of what constitutes an appropriate workspace for the British government…. _No!_ ” 

At this point, Molly decided to break in, before things deteriorated further. She said quickly to Sherlock, “Ask him if they can come _here_. For breakfast, or perhaps lunch. You can explain to them after -- I can always go upstairs, if you and Mycroft would rather be private with them.” 

Sherlock stared at her for a half second, then blurted, “But that would be your first meeting with them! _No_ , that would be--” 

“No, I’ve met them,” she broke in, mildly. “Several times, in fact.” 

He looked quite astonished. “ _What?_ When was this?” 

“At their home, the first time. After you’d left the country. Didn’t Mycroft tell you he took me to see them?” 

“No!” 

“Oh. Well, he did. They… they seemed to want to meet me, since I had helped you with… your… your fall. From Barts. And then I ran into them again, a couple of times, when you were in hospital. After you’d been shot. Your mother took me for tea down in the canteen once, while your father sat with you in case you should need anything. So kind.” He was still gaping at her, so she added, apologetically, “Of course you were still pretty out of it. I’m not surprised you don’t remember that.” 

He shut his mouth, frowning with consternation and deep thought. Then he said into the mobile, “Did you hear all that?... Yes, we can discuss that later. But Molly’s right: Neutral ground would be best for this, and her flat has just been swept so there will be no concern about security. Have Mummy and Dad come here, send a car for them, ten o’clock, we can all dine _en famille_ before we drop the bomb about Eurus.” 

He was silent again, and Molly noticed that his patience was dissipating as Mycroft replied at length, apparently raising a number of objections to the plan. When he glanced up, she gave him a look of sympathy. He gave her a grim smile in return, then finally seemed to have had enough of his brother’s diatribe. 

“Mycroft, _shut up_. For once just do as I say, because I’ll be damned before I come to your office for such a reason, and believe me, you _don’t_ want to tell them this without me at hand.” 

Mycroft apparently ignored the first of these behests. Molly shook her head and, her preparations in hand, set about making the omelet. As she was finishing it up, she heard Sherlock sigh and say, “Very well. But don’t send them any earlier than four o’clock. _Goodbye._ ” 

“Four o’clock?” she asked as he disconnected the call with some vehemence and she plated his omelet. 

“He wants his own people to sweep this place one more time, just to make sure Lestrade’s found everything. 

“Oh, no!” Molly exclaimed. “It took me hours to straighten everything when I got home last night.” 

“I’ll remind them not to disarrange things, though they’re fairly competent at leaving no evidence of their work, as I know too well.” 

“They’ve searched your flat?”                                          

“Any number of times,” Sherlock said, but absently as he was suddenly fixated on the sight of breakfast as she carried over his plate. “Lord, that looks good, and I’m bloody starving! Thank you!” 

She smiled, extremely gratified. “It’s always nice to have someone to cook for.  Would you like some tea?” 

“Yes, please,” Sherlock said, and tucked in. 

As she poured out their tea, Molly was aware of a conviction that she could get used to this sort of thing all too easily, and then she wondered if, in fulfillment of her heart’s desire, she would now actually have a chance to do so, or if all this was but a dream? It certainly resembled a dream, in many respects, a very specific one she'd sometimes berated herself for entertaining, believing that she must at all times be armed against disappointment. Yet here they were. Admittedly, there were some nightmare elements lurking just out of sight, but still… very much a dream. 

 

~.~


End file.
